Adrian
Her name was Elara. I learned that the next day, when I saw her balancing a tray of cocktails like her life depended on it.
The resort was buzzing with noise—the kind that came from old money laughing too loudly and new money pretending they belonged. Deals disguised as casual conversations floated through the air, laced with overpriced champagne and fake smiles. I was used to it. I’d grown up in these rooms, inhaled this brand of greed like oxygen. But that night, something… shifted.
Because of her.
She wasn’t like them. She didn’t blend in. She didn’t try. Her uniform was the same as the others—a crisp white blouse tucked into a sleek black skirt—but it clung differently, moved differently. Or maybe it was just her. The way she walked, graceful yet alert, like someone who understood how quickly a single misstep could break everything.
I shouldn’t have watched her. I shouldn’t have let my eyes track her across the terrace like a starving man chasing sunlight. But I did. God help me, I did.
And then opportunity struck—like fate wearing a smug grin.
A drunk investor—one of those overfed men who believed their bank balance gave them a license to touch—grabbed her wrist as she leaned to set his drink down. His laughter was sharp and ugly, slicing through the low hum of conversation. She smiled—professional, polite—but it didn’t reach her eyes. Panic flickered there, quick as a match strike, before she buried it under layers of practiced calm.
Before I thought, I was there.
“Problem here?” My voice was even. Controlled. But inside, my pulse was a storm.
The man turned, sluggish and slow, like his ego weighed more than his body. His sneer was almost impressive. “Who the hell are you?”
I smiled—a sharp, easy curve of my lips. The kind I wore when I was about to gut someone on the trading floor without spilling a drop of blood. “The guy telling you to let go before you embarrass yourself.”
He blinked, processing. For a second, I thought he’d be stupid enough to push back. God, I wanted him to. But then he released her with a muttered curse, shaking his head like it wasn’t worth the fight.
I didn’t spare him another glance. My eyes were on her.
“You okay?”
She nodded, breathless, a stray curl sticking to her cheek. Her fingers tightened around the tray like it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.
“I… yeah. Thank you.” Her voice was soft but steady, like she hated the idea of sounding fragile.
Those eyes. Christ. Up close, they were even worse—stormy gray with a ring of blue so faint you could miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But I was paying attention. Too much.
“Be careful,” I said, even though what I really wanted to say was, Let me take you out of here. Let me keep you safe.
She gave me a small smile, the kind that didn’t belong in a place like this. Too real. Too… clean. “I will.”
Then she was gone, melting back into the crowd, and I stood there like an idiot watching her walk away.
That was the first line I crossed. The first rule I broke.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
Because as I turned back toward the table, I knew something had shifted. I didn’t chase. I didn’t follow. But the image of her—those eyes, that voice—was carved into me like a scar.
And scars have a way of pulling you back.
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